As Tremaine walked slowly toward the lighted main street of Elsby a car
pulled to a stop beside him. Jess leaned out, peered at Tremaine and
asked:
"Any luck, Jimmy?"
Tremaine shook his head. "I'm getting nowhere fast. The Bram idea's a
dud, I'm afraid."
"Funny thing about Bram. You know, he hasn't showed up yet. I'm getting
a little worried. Want to run out there with me and take a look around?"
"Sure. Just so I'm back by full dark."
As they pulled away from the curb Jess said, "Jimmy, what's this about
State Police nosing around here? I thought you were playing a lone hand
from what you were saying to me."
"I thought so too, Jess. But it looks like Grammond's a jump ahead of
me. He smells headlines in this; he doesn't want to be left out."
"Well, the State cops could be mighty handy to have around. I'm
wondering why you don't want 'em in. If there's some kind of spy ring
working--"
"We're up against an unknown quantity. I don't know what's behind this
and neither does anybody else. Maybe it's a ring of Bolsheviks ...
and maybe it's something bigger. I have the feeling we've made enough
mistakes in the last few years; I don't want to see this botched."
The last pink light of sunset was fading from the clouds to the west as
Jess swung the car through the open gate, pulled up under the old trees
before the square-built house. The windows were dark. The two men got
out, circled the house once, then mounted the steps and rapped on the
door. There was a black patch of charred flooring under the window, and
the paint on the wall above it was bubbled. Somewhere a cricket set up
a strident chirrup, suddenly cut off. Jess leaned down, picked up an
empty shotgun shell. He looked at Tremaine. "This don't look good," he
said. "You suppose those fool boys...?"
He tried the door. It opened. A broken hasp dangled. He turned to
Tremaine. "Maybe this is more than kid stuff," he said. "You carry a
gun?"
"In the car."
"Better get it."
Tremaine went to the car, dropped the pistol in his coat pocket,
rejoined Jess inside the house. It was silent, deserted. In the kitchen
Jess flicked the beam of his flashlight around the room. An empty plate
lay on the oilcloth-covered table.
"This place is empty," he said. "Anybody'd think he'd been gone a week."
"Not a very cozy--" Tremaine broke off. A thin yelp sounded in the
distance.
"I'm getting jumpy," said Jess. "Dern hounddog, I guess."
A low growl seemed to rumble distantly. "What the devil's that?"
Tremaine said.
Jess shone the light on the floor. "Look here," he said. The ring of
light showed a spatter of dark droplets all across the plank floor.
"That's blood, Jess...." Tremaine scanned the floor. It was of broad
slabs, closely laid, scrubbed clean but for the dark stains.
"Maybe he cleaned a chicken. This is the kitchen."
"It's a trail." Tremaine followed the line of drops across the floor.
It ended suddenly near the wall.
"What do you make of it. Jimmy?"
A wail sounded, a thin forlorn cry, trailing off into silence. Jess
stared at Tremaine. "I'm too damned old to start believing in spooks,"
he said. "You suppose those damn-fool boys are hiding here, playing
tricks?"
"I think." Tremaine said, "that we'd better go ask Hull Gaskin a few
questions."
* * * * *
At the station Jess led Tremaine to a cell where a lanky teen-age boy
lounged on a steel-framed cot, blinking up at the visitor under a mop
of greased hair.
"Hull, this is Mr. Tremaine," said Jess. He took out a heavy key, swung
the cell door open. "He wants to talk to you."
"I ain't done nothin," Hull said sullenly. "There ain't nothin wrong
with burnin out a Commie, is there?"
"Bram's a Commie, is he?" Tremaine said softly. "How'd you find that
out, Hull?"
"He's a foreigner, ain't he?" the youth shot back. "Besides, we
heard...."
"What did you hear?"
"They're lookin for the spies."
"Who's looking for spies?"
"Cops."
"Who says so?"
The boy looked directly at Tremaine for an instant, flicked his eyes to
the corner of the cell. "Cops was talkin about 'em," he said.
"Spill it, Hull," the policeman said. "Mr. Tremaine hasn't got all
night."
"They parked out east of town, on 302, back of the woodlot. They called
me over and asked me a bunch of questions. Said I could help 'em get
them spies. Wanted to know all about any funny-actin people around
hers."
"And you mentioned Bram?"
The boy darted another look at Tremaine. "They said they figured the
spies was out north of town. Well, Bram's a foreigner, and he's out
that way, ain't he?"
"Anything else?"
The boy looked at his feet.
* * * * *
"What did you shoot at, Hull?" Tremaine said. The boy looked at him
sullenly.
"You know anything about the blood on the kitchen floor?"
"I don't know what you're talkin about," Hull said. "We was out
squirrel-huntin."
"Hull, is Mr. Bram dead?"
"What you mean?" Hull blurted. "He was--"
"He was what?"
"Nothin."
"The Chief won't like it if you hold out on him, Hull," Tremaine said.
"He's bound to find out."
Jess looked at the boy. "Hull's a pretty dumb boy," he said. "But he's
not that dumb. Let's have it, Hull."
The boy licked his lips. "I had Pa's 30-30, and Bovey Lay had a
twelve-gauge...."
"What time was this?"
"Just after sunset."
"About seven-thirty, that'd be," said Jess. "That was half an hour
before the fire was spotted."
"I didn't do no shootin. It was Bovey. Old Bram jumped out at him, and
he just fired off the hip. But he didn't kill him. He seen him run
off...."
"You were on the porch when this happened. Which way did Bram go?"
"He ... run inside."
"So then you set fire to the place. Whose bright idea was that?"
Hull sat silent. After a moment Tremaine and Jess left the cell.
"He must have gotten clear, Jimmy," said Jess. "Maybe he got scared and
left town."
"Bram doesn't strike me as the kind to panic." Tremaine looked at his
watch. "I've got to get on my way, Jess. I'll check with you in the
morning."
Tremaine crossed the street to the Paradise Bar and Grill, pushed
into the jukebox-lit interior, took a stool and ordered a Scotch and
water. He sipped the drink, then sat staring into the dark reflection
in the glass. The idea of a careful reconnoitre of the Elsby area was
gone, now, with police swarming everywhere. It was too bad about Bram.
It would be interesting to know where the old man was ... and if he
was still alive. He'd always seemed normal enough in the old days: a
big solid-looking man, middle-aged, always pleasant enough, though he
didn't say much. He'd tried hard, that time, to interest Tremaine in
learning whatever it was....
Tremaine put a hand in his jacket pocket, took out Miss Carroll's
locket. It was smooth, the size and shape of a wrist-watch chassis.
He was fingering it meditatively when a rough hand slammed against
his shoulder, half knocking him from the stool. Tremaine caught his
balance, turned, looked into the scarred face of a heavy-shouldered man
in a leather jacket.
"I heard you was back in town, Tremaine," the man said.